I, Mona Lisa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  We moved down a flight of stairs—I uncertainly, one hand worrying with my long skirts, my heavy overdress, the sweeping hem of the cloak. There came our usual pause as Salai waited for word from a lookout that the path was clear. The signal was given, and we trotted across smooth floors.

  Then, for the first time, we hesitated—in a doorway, I am certain, for beyond, rain crashed down violently, only inches from my face. Errant darts, driven by the wind, grazed my cheeks. Thunder roiled so powerfully, the earth beneath my feet shuddered.

  Beside me, Salai tensed, readying himself, and gripped my upper arm. “Run,” he commanded, and pulled me with him.

  Blindly, I ran. And gasped as sheets of icy water pummeled me. The rain lashed down at a fierce diagonal under my hood, directly into my face; I angled it away and down, trying to shield it, but my blindfold quickly became soaked; the water stung my eyes. I put my free hand to them.

  As I did, my shoe caught the soggy hem of my cloak. I lost my footing and fell, torn from Salai’s grasp, and came down hard on my free elbow, my knees. I struggled to push myself up; my palm pressed against cold, slick flagstone. At the same time, I raised the back of my wrist and wiped my burning eyes.

  The soaked blindfold slipped and fell away. I found myself staring up at Salai’s handsome young face, now stricken with panic.

  Near us, the horse and wagon waited. And behind him stood the massive walls of a great monastery, one I recognized quite well. He reached for me, tried to restrain me, but it was too late: I turned my head and glanced through the gray downpour at the piazza in the distance behind me.

  The graceful colonnades of the Ospedale degli Innocenti, the Foundling Hospital, looked back at me from the other side of the street. Farther down, so far to my left that he appeared no larger than a fly, my driver Claudio had sought refuge beneath a loggia.

  Salai and I were on the northern side of the church; Claudio waited for me on the western side, which faced the piazza.

  Each time I had met with Leonardo, I had been at Santissima Annunziata the entire while.

  LX

  Salai and I did not speak; the crashing downpour made communication impossible. He pulled me to my feet, pulled the cowl of the cloak back over my head, and we ran again, this time back into the shelter of the monastery. There, in the entry hall of what I presumed was a dormitory, we caught our breaths. My knees and left elbow ached and were no doubt badly bruised, but no real damage had been done.

  Salai made no effort to replace my blindfold; indeed, he motioned for me to pull the wool from my ears. He stood so close that our bodies touched, and said, his lips close to my ear, “Now you have the power to betray us all. Wait here. No one should come. If someone does, don’t speak—I’ll think of something when I return.”

  I waited. In a moment, Salai returned with a large cloth. He helped me out of the sodden black cloak, then watched as I dried myself off as best I could.

  “Good,” he said, when I handed the cloth back to him. “I was worried as to how you would explain your . . . damp condition to your coachman.”

  “You need not tell Leonardo,” I said. “About my knowing where we are.”

  He snorted. “It’s not as if we had any hope of hiding it from him, Monna. He can smell a lie as surely as we can smell blood on a butcher. Besides, I’m tired of driving you through town. Come.”

  He led me up a flight of stairs, through a maze of corridors, and down, until we arrived at the narthex leading to the main sanctuary. There he left me, without so much as a backward glance.

  I walked out beneath the shelter of an overhang, and waved at the loggia where Claudio waited.

  That night, after Matteo had at last fallen asleep in the nursery, Zalumma unlaced my sleeves. I was curious, in the mood to talk.

  “Did you know Giuliano?” I asked. “Lorenzo’s brother?”

  Her mood was already troubled; I had come home shaken, with my hair inexplicably wet. Like Leonardo, she had a nose for deceit. And when I asked about Giuliano, her mood darkened further.

  “I didn’t know him well,” she said. “I met him, on a few occasions.” She glanced up and to her left, at the far-distant past, and her tone softened. “He was a striking man; the few images I have seen of him don’t really show it. He was very happy, very gentle, like a child in the very best sense. He was kind to people even when he didn’t need to be. Kind to me, a slave.”

  “You liked him?”

  She nodded, wistful, as she folded my sleeves and set them in the closet, then turned back to me and began unlacing my gown. “He loved your mother dearly. She would have been very happy with him.”

  “There was a man. In the Duomo,” I said. “The day Giuliano was killed. Someone . . . someone saw it happen. It wasn’t just Baroncelli and Francesco de’ Pazzi. There was another man, a man wearing a hood, to cover his face. He struck the first blow.”

  “There was another man?” She was aghast.

  “Another man, who escaped. And he has never been found. He might still be here in Florence.” My gown dropped to the floor; I stepped from it.

  She let go an angry noise. “Your mother loved Giuliano more than life. When he died, I thought she would . . .” She shook her head and gathered my gown into her arms.

  Very softly, I said, “I think that . . . someone else, someone in Florence . . . knows who he is. And the time will come when I learn who he is. On that day, he will finally meet justice—at my hand, I hope.”

  “What good will it do?” she demanded. “It’s too late. Giuliano’s life is gone, and your mother’s destroyed. She was going to him that night. Did you know? She was going to leave your father to go with him to Rome. . . . The night before he was murdered, she went to tell him so. . . .”

  I went and sat in front of the fireplace to warm myself. I said nothing more to Zalumma that night. I thought of my mother’s ruined life as I stared into the flames, and promised myself silently that I would find a way to avenge her, and both our Giulianos.

  Winter passed slowly. In Leonardo’s absence, I went to pray almost daily in the little chapel at Santissima Annunziata. I missed the artist: He had been my one link to my real father and my beloved Giuliano. I knew that, like me, he grieved over their loss.

  Almost every evening, when the way was clear—that is, when Francesco was off whoring—I stole down to his study and searched his desk for letters. For several weeks, I found nothing. I fought off disappointment by reminding myself that Piero was coming. Piero was coming, at which point I would abandon Francesco and—with Matteo, my father, and Zalumma—seek refuge with the Medici.

  But Piero did not come.

  As wife of a high-ranking piagnone, I was obliged to continue attending Savonarola’s Saturday sermons for the women. I went with Zalumma to San Lorenzo and sat close to the high altar and the lectern, the place reserved for those with ties to the prophet. I endured the sermon by imagining myself going to Leonardo and commissioning a beautiful monument for my Giuliano. But my attention was captured by Fra Girolamo’s ringing voice, filled with vitriol as he addressed his hushed congregation:

  “Those lovers of Piero de’ Medici and his brothers, Giuliano and the so-called Cardinal Giovanni—”

  Zalumma and I stared straight ahead; I dared not look at her. Pain and anger blinded me. I heard the prophet’s words, but I could not see his face. Fool, I thought. You don’t know that Giuliano is dead. . . .

  “God knows who they are! God knows their hearts! I tell you, those who continue to love the Medici are just like them: the rich, the idolatrous, who worship pagan ideals of beauty, pagan art, pagan treasures. And all the while, as they glitter and gleam with their gold and jewels, the poor starve! God tells me this—I do not speak for myself: Behold, those who worship such idolaters deserve to feel the bite of the executioner’s blade upon their necks. Like headless men they behave, without consideration of God’s law, without compassion for the poor. And so, they shall become headless, indeed!”


  I remained silent, but inwardly I seethed as I remembered a line from the most recent letter discovered in Francesco’s study:

  In fact, our prophet should now redouble his fervor, specifically against the Medici.

  I seethed. And I trembled. And I prayed to Piero to come.

  I found only one letter in Francesco’s study at that time—again, in the same heavy-handed script.

  Your fears of excommunication are unfounded. I told you before to have faith. Let him preach without fear! Do not hold him back. You will see. Pope Alexander will relent.

  One year faded into the next. On the very first day of 1496, Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, betrayed Florence.

  One of the gems that King Charles of France had stolen from Florence, on his march south, was the fortress of Pisa. Pisa had always been ruled by Florence, but had long yearned to be free. Since the invasion, the city was controlled by the French.

  But Ludovico bribed the keeper of Pisa’s fortress to hand over the keys to the Pisans themselves. And with that single move, Pisa gained her freedom—from Charles and from Florence.

  Ludovico, the crafty man, worked to keep his involvement secret. As a result, Florentines believed that King Charles had given the Pisans self-rule. Charles, hailed by Savonarola as God’s champion who would bring Florence great glory, had instead betrayed her.

  And the people blamed Savonarola. For the first time, their praise turned to discontent.

  It was Salai who—unable to restrain his enthusiasm—whispered the truth of it to me one day, as I left my prayers at the family chapel. I smiled. If this was the result of Leonardo’s work, then I could more cheerfully accept his absence.

  Winter yielded to spring, which brought relentless rains. The lower-lying areas of the city flooded, damaging many workshops, including those of many dyers, which in turn delayed profits for Francesco’s silk and my father’s wool businesses.

  But for the time, we had more than enough food to eat—especially given Francesco’s connections.

  My husband’s mood was exceptionally cheerful during those days. I did not learn why until one evening at supper, when he was feeling particularly loquacious.

  The storm outside had eased to constant heavy drizzle. After weeks of gloom, our palazzo was drafty and cold, so the three of us—my father, Francesco, and I—sat as close as possible to the fire.

  Francesco had spent the afternoon at the Palazzo della Signoria; as a result, he was dressed in his best lucco, the long burgundy tunic trimmed with brown sable at the sleeves and neck. He came home smiling, and his cheerfulness only seemed to increase after his arrival. By the time we all sat down at the table—at the instant the wine was poured—Francesco could no longer contain himself.

  “Good news, Ser Antonio!” he said, addressing himself to my father—my wan, faded father, who was Francesco’s age but looked far older. Francesco’s eyes were bright; his cheeks and the tip of his nose were still flushed from his ride home through the chill, damp air. Tiny beads of moisture had collected in his silver hair and gleamed with firelight. “You will remember, of course, the Pope’s brief last year, which called for Fra Girolamo to stop preaching?”

  “I do,” my father replied, without enthusiasm. Savonarola’s sermons had continued in defiance of the order. There were those who said excommunication could not be far behind.

  “His Holiness has, after investigating the matter, realized the unfairness of this request. Today, the Signoria received notice from him that Fra Girolamo can continue to preach, so long as he does not excoriate Rome, and specifically His Holiness.” Francesco beamed, then leaned his head back and took a long swallow of wine.

  I listened but maintained a polite, disinterested expression. Secretly, I wondered whether Francesco had in fact learned this from the Signoria, or from his mysterious correspondent. I decided to search his desk that night if possible.

  “Well,” my father said, “it’s just as well that he doesn’t anger Rome. People were beginning to worry, you know.”

  “Such worries are unfounded,” Francesco said. “And people are too quick to forget all that Fra Girolamo has done for Florence. Charles might have razed the city, were it not for the friar’s intervention.”

  My father nodded faintly, then stared distractedly into the fire.

  “But what of the rumor,” I began, with feigned innocence, “that a letter was intercepted long ago, on its way to France . . . from Fra Girolamo to King Charles?”

  My husband turned sharply on me. “Where did you learn such a thing?”

  “Agrippina said she overheard it at the market. They say the friar begged Charles to come to Italy so that Florence would believe his prophecy.”

  “I know what it says. How can you repeat such an obvious lie?”

  “I mentioned it because I knew you would know the truth,” I said, so smoothly I astonished myself. “I have also heard the Pope was thinking of leaving the Holy League.” Pope Alexander had formed the League—which was backed by Naples, Milan, and the Holy Roman Emperor—in order to oust Charles from Italy. Savonarola of course opposed it, but Florence had been under great pressure from Rome to join.

  This calmed Francesco. “That I had not heard. It is very possible. It would certainly be good news for us.” He paused and took another gulp of wine, then shot my father a sly glance. “Ser Antonio,” he said. “I was thinking that it’s high time you had another grandchild to enjoy.” His gaze flickered at me briefly before he smiled down into his goblet. “I am not a young man. I need sons who can take over the family trade. What do you think?”

  Sickened, I lowered my eyes and stared down at the wine in my own cup. I yearned to drown myself in it.

  “I think,” my father answered slowly, “that I had only one child. And I never felt lacking. I am very proud of my daughter.”

  “Yes, we all are,” Francesco replied swiftly; his expansive mood could not be darkened. “And of course, it is wrong of me to discuss such things without first consulting my beloved wife.” He finished his goblet of wine and called for more, then abruptly changed the subject to the implications of the foul weather.

  “High prices are coming,” my father said. “This happened before, when I was a boy. If the rains don’t stop, we won’t have any crops. And if that happens, I guarantee you, the starving will riot.”

  “We need have no worry,” Francesco said firmly. “God smiles on Florence. The rain will stop.”

  My father was unimpressed. “What if it doesn’t? What if there are no crops at all? Savonarola had best intercede if the sun is to shine on us again.”

  Francesco’s smile faded a bit; he turned his careful gaze on my father. “It will, Ser Antonio. I promise you, it will.”

  “Floods bring plague,” my father said. “Hunger brings plague. I have seen this before. . . .”

  Thinking of Matteo, I started. My father saw it and, chastened, took my hand. “I did not mean to frighten you. Plague would never affect us, Lisa.”

  “Indeed not,” Francesco said, with a hint of warning. “We are in no danger of floods here, nor of hunger. No one in my house will ever go hungry.”

  My father nodded by way of acquiescence before lowering his gaze.

  We ate mostly in silence, except for Francesco’s complaint that the peasants were still too ignorant to realize the truth of the matter: that the Duke of Milan, Ludovico Sforza, and not Fra Girolamo, had given the Pisans the keys to their fortress. An unfortunate confusion, since it made men speak out against the one who loved them the most and prayed to God fervently on their behalf. It was, Francesco insisted, the only possible reason for the growth of the Arrabbiati, who were very close to becoming a formal political party opposing Savonarola and the piagnoni.

  Afterward, Francesco hinted broadly that he and I were tired and would retire early; my father—who normally stayed later and enjoyed his grandson’s company—took the hint graciously and left.

  As I excused myself to retire to my chambers, Franc
esco rose and gave me a pointed look.

  “Go to your room,” he said, not ungently, “and tell Zalumma to undress you. I will be up shortly.”

  I did so with a disgust so profound it verged on nausea. As Zalumma unlaced my gown, we studied each other with the same fear we had experienced on my wedding night.

  “If he hurts you . . .” Zalumma murmured darkly.

  I shook my head to silence her. If he hurt me, there was nothing I or she could do about it. I watched her put my gown in the wardrobe, then stood patiently as she brushed out my hair and braided it. At last, I sent her away. Dressed only in my camicia, I sat on the bed and apologized to Giuliano. Francesco touches only my body, I told him. He’ll never touch my love for you.

  I waited alone on my bed for a miserable half hour. When the door opened, I looked up to see Francesco, his eyes red-rimmed and glittering, his balance unsteady. In his hand he held a goblet of wine.

  “Beloved wife,” he murmured. “What do you say to my desire to have another son?”

  I didn’t meet his gaze; perhaps he would think it modesty. “You are my husband. I cannot fight your wishes.”

  He sat down beside me, letting his full weight drop carelessly onto the bed, and put his goblet down on the night table; the wine sloshed over the rim and perfumed the air. “Don’t you have wishes yourself? Surely you want more children. What mother doesn’t?”

  I couldn’t look at him. “Of course I want more.”

  He took my hand; I let it go limp in his grasp. “I am not a fool, Lisa,” he said.

  The words caused the hairs on the back of my neck to prick. Did he know? Had my searches in his study been detected? Had Claudio seen something?

  But he continued, “I know that you don’t love me, though I had hoped you would learn to. You are a very beautiful woman and an intelligent one. I take pride in calling you my wife. And I had hoped you would repay my kindnesses by giving me many heirs.”